


Not Throwing Away My One-Shots

by Go_Fic_Yourself



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Breakup, Drabbles, M/M, implied cheating/betrayal, lawyer!phil au, not actually a crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6532609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_Fic_Yourself/pseuds/Go_Fic_Yourself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a friend is sending me Hamilton Lyrics each day and I'm writing whatever comes to mind for them. You're welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gentlemen of the Jury

\--Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me, are you aware we're making history?--

 

It should be some kind of perk to risking your ass on a daily basis in the name of world safety that you don't have to serve jury duty.

It should be, but of course it isn't. Which is why Clint is stuck in this box like a naughty hockey player surrounded by eleven other naughty hockey players doing their civic duty. 

He listens longingly to the sound of sirens wailing in the distance, wishing the judge had taken "I'm an avenger." as the sincere and valid excuse it was meant to be. Instead she had thanked him for his service and stated that she expected more of the same. Especially since his presence would make this a jury of the defendant's peers, whatever the fuck that meant. 

He stood and sat as the judge came in, as sullenly irreverent as he was in church. 

At least the eye candy was good. Blind scruffy lawyer and cute chubby lawyer on the far side of the room with the presumably innocent guy and smoking hot silver fox in a suit closer to the jury box. Thank. Fucking. God.

Clint tuned out for the next bit, the law and order song and dance he'd heard a million times and didn't come back from that quiet headspace until hot lawyer broke the stillness with a soft clearing of his throat. He stood and in a soft, even voice that had Clint hanging on every word, thanked the judge. He smoothed out some completely nonexistent wrinkles in his jacket and did that little throat clear again, a completely innocuous move that nevertheless got the attention of everyone in the room. Clint watched as he approached the booth, a small smirk on his lips, clearly enjoying being in the middle of all this.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me, are you aware we're making history? This is the first super-powered murder trial of our nation." 

And with that, Clint was hooked.


	2. In The Eye of a Hurricane

\---In the eye of a Hurricane, there is quiet. -----

 

Clint Barton knows silence. He knows the ringing, vibrating silence of having your eardrum torn. The tense silence as you wait for a reprimand or an order. The silence after the crack of a gun or the thud of an arrow hitting home. 

And this silence. Like the quiet after a firefight that's only stopped because there is no more damage to be done. 

Tense. Uncertain. 

Like that silence, this one is delicate, waiting to be shattered. In this one too, there is no more damage to be done. 

He can't remember having shared a space with anyone else for this long without speaking. Then again, before today he always had something to say. Now, even if he could find his voice, there are no words, nothing that can mend this. 

It is the calm before the storm except Phil Coulson isn't a storm. He is the tide. Steady, calm and reliable and Clint knows that there is only one way he will react in this situation. It's only a matter of time until he realizes that too.

Phil though? Phil's a fixer. That mind that's stopped global crises and talked down terrorists is desperately looking for a way out that doesn't end this way, but all he finds are walls. 

Eventually he stands, looking grief stricken. The only words he has left are like the last bullets in the clip. He saves them, getting up and leaving the room with only a sharp and decisive nod.


	3. Bloodstains

\---I'm takin' this horse by the reins, makin' red coats redder with bloodstains.---

 

For all that Clint's HR paperwork said that he was an assassin (albeit in a highly sanitized string of legalese that might just have easily meant that he was a plumber for all he could tell), he didn't go into many missions with the intention to kill.

This is one of the few where he did. 

It shows.

His movements are clipped, calculated and cold. There is no flourish, no joy. He is efficient and leaves a winding trail of bodies as he makes his way through the complex. 

He rounds a corner and begins shooting in a rhythm that is as familiar as his own heart beat.

Draw. Aim. Release. Thud. 

His usual qualms are ignored as he retrieves his arrows from the bodies. The wet sound of the point's withdrawal the only noise in the halls. 

Clint doesn't enjoy killing. He never has. It's part of his job and he believes that what he does makes the world a better place, but tonight isn't about that. Tonight he feels a swell of satisfaction, of pleasure, each time an arrow hits home. 

He's never been big on self delusion (reality always reasserts itself in the end) so he knows he's not a good person. A scientist type rounds the corner and an arrow is up to the fletchings in his throat before he can react. After today he might need to find some harsher words than 'not good', but he'll deal with that later. 

Two more guards down and he comes to a door that opens onto a cell block. He drags one of the fallen guards up for the retinal scan. It whirs and whines before finally flashing green and clicking the door lock open. Clint is grateful that the machinery is only smart enough to know that the man still alive, but not enough to know that he's drowning in his own blood. Clint let's him fall unceremoniously to the ground and opens the door to the long corridor of cells. 

As he goes down the row most of them are empty. Clint is thankful for that because the faces he sees in the occupied cells are haunted beyond anything he's ever seen. 

A SHIELD team will come in for the others. They will have the skills and equipment to treat them. Clint only cares about one. 

The is nearly to the end of the hall and the last several cells have been empty. The thought that this might have all been for nothing, that she might have been gone this entire time, flashes cold and sharp through his heart and mind.

The last cell isn't empty. Tasha is keeping herself upright by clinging to the bars, a jagged piece of stone (probably pried off the wall and sharpened) clutched in her hand. 

He doesn't waste time checking her over or doing the earnest "I'm so glad you're alive" speech. He sets to picking the lock and rolling the door open and is ready to catch her when it does. She doesn't fall though, just tries to shake her hair back from her face and look at him. She fails on both counts. Her hair is matted with blood and her eyes are glassy, not really seeing him. Still, she hasn't attacked, which is either a good sign or a very bad one. "Tasha, it's me, it's Clint. I'm here to bring you home." He presses the handle of a knife into her hand until she gets the point and drops her makeshift weapon in favor of one of her own knives. She takes a shaky breath and gives an even shakier nod. 

She doesn't speak until they've made it out of the complex and can see the lights of the incoming SHIELD team. "What took you so long?" She mumbles as she finally slings an arm over Clint's shoulder, using him to balance. 

Clint's laughter echoes in the cold air until the medical team come and gently take Natasha away from him.


End file.
